Crick
by irishileana
Summary: "He's not going to let her wake up sore, and he knows what's best for her, and he's going to do what's best for her whether she likes it or not." Caveline fluff/angst, can be read platonically or romantically. Contains very mild language.


**A/N: **This started out as fluff, I swear.

* * *

She's going to get a crick in her neck.

He's at work early today, just as he has been every day for a long while. Aperture has always been a hard place to stay away from for very long, but nowadays he's been spending almost all of his time here—and so has she. At least he goes home at night. She says she does, she says she's not a workaholic, but that doesn't explain why she's slumped over her desk, her mouth half open in sleep, her neck in a position quite certainly designed to be burdened with a _crick_.

He should wake her. Her regular work hours are going to start soon, and she's on his payroll, and he should make her do her job like everyone else. On the other hand, he knows full well she's been here for the past two nights chugging down coffee with her head poring over documents and bills and contracts and confidentiality agreements. She's been doing the work of six men and this is probably the first time she's slept in half a week and she deserves a break but damn it, he's not going to leave her like that. He's not going to let her wake up sore, and he knows what's best for her, and he's going to do what's best for her whether she likes it or not.

Approaching the desk carefully, he calculates the best way to do this. For about a second. She's the one who does the calculations around here, not him; he likes to follow his gut. Right now his gut is telling him to reach out and pull her into his arms like a groom carrying his new bride across the threshold, and damned if he's gonna ignore what his gut is telling him. He pulls her chair away from the desk, not so far that she'll fall, and pushes his hands under her back and legs to hoist her into his clutches. A receipt for seventy million dollars' worth in moon rocks sticks momentarily to her face before fluttering onto the chair. She feels like a misshapen bag of sand, and he's not as young as he used to be, but he's not going to stop now.

Of course, in all that jostling, she stirs. "Mmmm . . . Mister Johnson?"

Her hair has fallen in her face, strands of it covering her half-lidded eyes. She sounds confused and he brushes her hair away as he responds. "Shhhh." He clears his throat, which has been tickling a bit lately. "Go back to sleep. Need you in top form or this place'll collapse without you." He notices the way she frowns, how she opens her mouth to argue, but he beats her to the punch. "That's an order. Say goodnight, Caroline, or you're fired." He won't actually fire her, of course, and she knows that just as well as he does, but she softens, almost laughs.

"Goodnight, Caroline . . . or you're fired."

He can tell that she still wants to resist, that she'd refuse to give in if only she weren't half asleep already. She doesn't know what's good for her. He walks slowly and carefully, watching as she relaxes back into some dream of science. She's heavy, practically dead weight in his arms, but his own determination convinces him she's light as the paper she was pored over. He can handle one short little walk with his pretty secretary in his arms. He's _Cave Johnson_, after all.

His steps seem surprisingly quiet in the still halls, not yet filled with the bustling activity of the rest of the staff. If it were her, he knows, her heels would echo through the whole facility, a warning that Caroline is nearby and everyone had better shape up before they face her. Usually they can hear him coming, too, storming through the halls in whatever fit of rage or inspiration hits him, but Caroline never needs that extra bit of emotiveness to be heard. As cheerful or calm as she might be, she is always menacing. Her tapping footsteps are innocent, practically background noise, but they bring results.

In any case, today his steps are quiet. It's unlike him.

He glances down to check his footing and his gaze catches against the sight of her face, eyes closed against his watch. She looks so peaceful, but it's more than that; she looks so _young_. In sleep she is unmarred by the deep creases in her forehead, those marks of age and stress that her job has impressed upon her. She's worked here for so long that he hasn't noticed her youth dropping away from her, and he can't imagine how she ever got to be past twenty-one. Like this—if he ignores the streaks of grey in her hair—she still might be the fresh-faced girl who blushed when he said her name.

It takes a bit of shifting for him to free a hand and open the door, but he manages. The lounge is empty, but then it always is; it's not used as often as the main one, thanks to an experiment that escaped one of the tests and left behind a rather strong, sour odour. She won't like waking up to that, but her neck won't hurt and she won't be bothered by any of the other employees getting their morning coffee. He sets her gently on the long, squishy sofa, taking off his jacket to place under her head as a pillow. In sleep, her hand moves to clutch one of the sleeves and bring it closer to her face. He only wishes he had a second jacket for her to use as a blanket.

As he rights himself to a proper standing position, he looks again at her relaxed, slumbering face. She really is something else. "Don't worry, Caroline." He can't explain where the soft, murmured words come from, but he doesn't stop them. After all, impulsiveness is his forte. "It's been a rough go lately, but our luck's gonna turn back again soon. The moon rocks are gonna change everything. Promise."

He leaves the room to hopeful thoughts of the future, letting out a harsh cough.


End file.
